


still there, inside my chest

by keplerlesbian



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: (mostly), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Gen, Implied Dissociation, Minor Character Death, Peter Nureyev Will Keep All His Emotions Right There and then One Day He’ll Die, Trust Issues, Unreliable Narrator, implied depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-21 23:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17651699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keplerlesbian/pseuds/keplerlesbian
Summary: Peter Nureyev was lonely, but he preferred it that way—it gave the world less ammunition to use against him.[OR: Four times Peter was betrayed and the trust issues he acquired along the way.]





	1. origins

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2018-2019 penumbra mini bang! this fic is already written and tags will be updated as more chapters are added. feel free to ask for more info if there’s something in here that worries you or if you need any specific content warnings!
> 
> the title for this fic comes from “hello my old heart” by the oh hellos.
> 
> thanks to ginnie (@[ginnie-darling](https://ginnie-darling.tumblr.com) on tumblr) for beta’ing this.
> 
> thanks to elliot (@[faunlord](http://faunlord.tumblr.com) on tumblr) for [their amazing art](http://faunlord.tumblr.com/post/182542699466/still-there-inside-my-chest-by-sevenbirds-peter) of this fic!

The streets of Brahma were harsh.

The entire planet was harsh, really. Their society was poorly disguised as anything but the authoritarian regime it was. If dissenting voices were suppressed quickly enough—and they were, always, without fail—there was no need to construct appearances for the media. Besides, the media had been owned by the government for ages, anyway.

Despite a constant stream of state-sanctioned broadcasts, Peter, like the majority of those who lived on the planet’s surface, knew the truth about Brahma. Its Guardian Angel System wasn’t the revolutionary crimestopper it was hailed as; he could tell you from experience that it sure as _hell_ didn’t ensure a peaceful, utopian society.

He knew that the floating city in the sky was dangerous for people like him, the people who were clever enough to see the injustice around them and brave enough to think they could fix it.

Some would call this bravery by another name: foolishness.

When he was thirteen or so, Mag introduced him to a library that was hidden from the general public. Of course, there were libraries on Brahma that were open to all of its citizens, but none of them carried texts that were worth reading—all reading materials were subject to significant censorship before the libraries received their license to operate, and new texts were exposed to similar levels of scrutiny before they could be shelved.

This library was different. It had been a private collection once, and therefore, carried books that would’ve been banned elsewhere on the planet.

The place was incredible, really. Peter struggled to describe it in a way that depicted its true magnificence, but he could imagine himself living out his life within its walls and dying as a content old man, his fingers resting gently on a page.

Perhaps it was morbid for a thirteen-year-old to imagine his own death, but it was decidedly more pleasant than the other, more probable scenario, where he was unceremoniously struck down from the sky.

When Peter walked up to the counter, he brought a stack of six books with him. These books were unlike any he had ever seen. They talked of revolution and they fought for it, even if they faced insurmountable odds. They didn’t always win, but at least they _tried_. That was its own kind of bravery, right?

Peter understood why Mag had taken so long to show him this place. Mag had to know with absolute certainty that Peter would never speak a word of it to anyone else. The ideas that swirled through this library were incendiary and brilliant, but they could also get someone killed if the library was discovered.

Behind the counter, the owner of the library sighed. “One at a time,” she said.

Peter clutched the books tighter to his chest for a moment, but he didn’t put up a resistance. The library had already given him so much today just with the knowledge of its existence. Instead, he selected an old Earth book titled _Les Misérables_ because it was the longest, and therefore, it would hopefully last him until Mag could bring him to the library again. Next, he would try _Fahrenheit 451_ , or maybe _1984_.

“Good choice, kid,” the owner said as he placed his final selection on the counter. But she paused for a moment before picking it up, glancing between the book and his youthful face. Peter waited.

“It’s a good book,” she finally said. “Be careful, though. I don’t want you getting the wrong kind of ideas.”

“What do you mean?” Peter asked.

“The boys in this book—well, you’ll see what happens to them. Just remember this: maybe you grow up and you fix the system from the inside, but you have to live till then, first.”

Peter didn’t remember what happened next, but he never got the chance to return the book. Nine weeks after their visit, the library was discovered and its contents were burned. The owner of the library—well, he could guess what her fate had been, and it certainly wasn’t idyllic.

On the eve of his and Mag’s attempt to infiltrate New Kinshasa, Peter recalled those words from long ago and he felt his stomach turn. She probably would’ve thought this plan was foolish. She probably would’ve been right.

But Peter had Mag. He had his father’s legacy to uphold, a world to change, and dreams of the day when he could turn his face towards the sun without the fear of being struck down, even if he didn’t exactly have plans for the future.

Truthfully, Peter didn't know what he and Mag would do after they disabled the Guardian Angel System. After living so long in a world that prioritized the maintenance of complete order over the wellbeing of its citizens, would Brahmans even dare to want to change? He thought of Les Amis de l’ABC, the boys of the barricade, and how certain they were that Paris would rise to join them. His disquiet grew.

Those were parallels to be drawn later, though. For now, he and Mag had a safe place to rest, and in the morning, they would pose as dignitaries from Akhna and the world would be born anew.

Conversely, there were the probable odds that neither of them would live to see the next day. Death was always possible on Brahma, but if he and Mag were discovered for the ill-intentioned imposters that they were . . . well, the lasers would have their work cut out for them, assuming that the security guards didn’t kill them on the spot.

Peter attempted to dismiss the unpleasant images that the thought evoked with a shake of his head, like a dog trying to shake off its fleas. Mag, who was currently tasked with watch duty, noticed.

"You alright there, Peter?" Mag asked.

"Fine," Peter lied. Something about their plan was nagging at him, but he couldn’t place a finger on what.

"Sleep, then. We have an important day in front of us tomorrow."

Peter rolled over in his bedroll, put his back to his mentor, and tried to quell his nerves. Mag had already declined his offers to keep watch, so logically, he should take every minute of uninterrupted sleep he could get.

Just as he was about to fall asleep, it clicked. Assuming that he and Mag successfully disabled the Guardian Angel System, what was their plan for making it out of the building?

His dreams that night were troubled. Peter tossed and turned, mind preoccupied with every way their plan could go wrong.

–•–

He and Mag made it farther than Peter expected before the plan came crashing down on them.

They had successfully infiltrated New Kinshasa. Rossignol was surprised to see them, but she kept her composure in the face of what seemed to be an unexpected drop-in from foreign dignitaries. She looked through their false paperwork and allowed them access to her office, and by extension, the rest of the Guardian Angel System.

Red light glared in the chamber, illuminating the scene. Peter, with a knife; Mag, with a humorless grin and the removed reactor, still glowing.

“Here’s something else I stand for, Peter: I won’t draw a knife on my family. Do what you like, but I will not strike back.”

Peter gritted his teeth and watched as his mentor turned his back to him and began to walk away.

Everything Mag did was a show to manipulate him; Peter was smart enough to realize that now. The reference to family, the indifferent manner in which Mag allowed Peter into his blindspot—like he had nothing to fear from him.

If anything, it only strengthened his resolve. Peter could see the manipulation plainly, now, and it made his heart ache as he questioned how long the slippery threads of it had been woven into their relationship. He knew the answer—ever since Mag told him the story of his so-called father, the martyr—but he didn’t want to think about it too closely. He would agonize over it later.

“Don’t walk away from me!” Peter warned, his voice cracking with hysteria. “I’ll do it; I swear I will!”

Despite all that had been revealed in the past few minutes, Peter still trusted Mag at his word when he said that he wouldn’t fight back. But his mentor continued to walk away from him and Peter—he was so angry—

Distantly, Peter was aware of what he had done. He watched, as if from second-person, as Mag collapsed to the floor; called him Peter, my boy; reached out to touch his cheek in a way that could almost be called loving. It would have made him angry if he wasn’t already so numb.  
His father was a lie and Mag was a liar and now Mag was dead. The world was tilting below his feet, but at the same time, he felt like a long-standing wrong had been righted.

He restored the reactor to its original position and carefully ignored the bloody streaks that marred its surface. Staring at the light that the reactor gave off, entranced, Peter came to the sudden realization that he could just . . . give up. The guards were outside the door; they had already figured out that he was in the core. This could be the end of Peter Nureyev.

The thought probably shouldn’t have seemed as appealing as it was. And so, when the guards burst in the door, Peter Nureyev raised his knife and he delivered his message.

Somehow, he made it past the guards, past the billboards bearing his name and likeness, and onto a ship. He clutched an interplanetary passport closely, newly forged and bearing a false name.

He was scared, and so, so alone. The grief would have to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as mentioned above, this fic is named after lyrics from “hello my old heart” by the oh hellos. i drew a lot of inspiration for this fic from the following two verses in particular:
> 
> “Hello my old heart,  
> it's been so long  
> since I've given you away.  
> And every day  
> I add another stone  
> to the walls I built around you  
> to keep you 
> 
> and
> 
> ”Hello my old heart  
> how have you been?  
> How is it being locked away?  
> Don't you worry, in there you're safe  
> and it's true you'll never beat,  
> but you'll never break.”


	2. (dis)connection

Mirari was a planet of unimaginable excess. It was a place where young rich people came for their honeymoons, staying in one of the the planet’s many, _many_ resorts for a week or two. It was a place where old billionaires bought luxury condos on white sandy beaches, only to use them once every five years and keep them empty for the rest of that time—but keep them carefully maintained by a house cleaning staff, nevertheless, in case of any ssurprise visits.

It was, perhaps, not the best place for a sixteen-year-old—especially one who essentially relied on pickpocketing to get by, these days.

Essentially, Peter had misjudged the planet. It had a reputation for wealth and so Peter foolishly believed it would be full of easy targets. As it turned out, rich people _really_ cared about protecting their assets. The streets crawled with members of the police, both public and private.

He knew that he stood out for his appearance, both for his youth and for his relatively plain, worn clothing. It attracted attention, and when there were so many police officers around, attention was the last thing he wanted. On top of that, Peter wasn’t eating well. He had to be exceedingly careful with the targets he chose, which meant that some days he struck gold and some days he just struck out. His hair was thinning and strands fell out every time he ran his hands through it.

Eventually, Peter came to the realization that he needed a job. Like, a legitimate _job_ job where he would be paid regularly. That way, he could eat consistently. That way, he could get off of this godforsaken capitalist _hellhole_ of a planet.

He was so screwed.

–•–

Peter prepared for the interview process. He made sure that his fake papers would stand up to inspection and that they would prompt no red flags. He cut his hair to fall to his chin—the dead ends were too noticeable. He created a résumé, of sorts, although there admittedly wasn’t a lot he could put on it. He was lucky, though, because his young age could explain some of that away.

–•–

“Sorry, we’re not in a position to be training anyone new right now.”

_and_

“We need employees who will stay for longer than their summer break.”

_and_

“I don’t think you’re the right fit, especially considering how thin your resumé is.”

_and_

“The sign on your window said you were hiring,” Peter pointed out.

The restaurant manager scowled. “Sure we are. We’re hiring _adults_. People who can legally serve alcohol.”

Peter made a mental note to age himself up the next time he forged a new identity. Being a teenager was so _inconvenient_.

“I’m a hard worker,” Peter argued. “I know I’m young, but someone else can serve the alcohol. Just give me a chance and I promise you won’t regret it.”

And, miraculously, he got his chance—no matter how grudgingly it was extended. Maybe fate had decided to smile upon him for a change.

Peter wasn’t the best waiter, not by a long shot, but he was dexterous. He could carry four plates at a time, some balanced on his palms and others on his wrists. He could put on a mask, hide his resentment of these people who had more money than they knew what to do with and were blind to their own privilege. He could be _charming_ , even.

–•–

One day, Peter was assigned to a table with three old men in suits. They talked politics and they talked politics _loudly_ , especially considering that it was brunchtime and the restaurant was slow.

Peter judged two of the visitors to be from somewhere in the Outer Rim, but he couldn’t place their origins with any more specificity than that. The third one, though, the one facing the window, spoke with what was undeniably a Brahmese accent. His nationality was corroborated by the text of the newspaper in front of him and the familiar alphabet it used.

Understandably, this sent Peter into a bit of a panic. “Peter” wasn’t the name on his nametag, of course it wasn’t—he remembered the electronic billboards and how his face was plastered on thousands of glowing screens for all of Brahma to see, and he was no fool—but he also had no way of knowing exactly what information had been released to the public. For all he knew, the higher-ups on New Kinshasa had kept the details of his and Mag’s  crime a secret, rather than admit that there were vulnerabilities in the Guardian Angel System.

Still, there was no doubt that he was some type of criminal on his home planet—in the eyes of the law, at the very least, if not in the eyes of the people as well. But for the Brahmese man facing the window, who was rich enough to leave the Outer Rim and visit a distant resort planet, yet indoctrinated enough to still bother to read a Brahmese newspaper? Peter didn’t like his chances.

Prior to that morning, he hadn’t heard anything from Brahma in nearly a year. The fact had been somehow reassuring and disquieting all at once. But now, slapped in the face with a reminder of his past, Peter ached with loneliness.

Peter knew that Mag would’ve killed everyone on New Kinshasa with only minimal regret, even as he mourned the death of his father figure that night. Perhaps that made him a bit selfish, but still, the two conditions were not mutually exclusive in his mind. If he was lucky, maybe one day there would be someone who was permitted to see the real Peter Nureyev once more, but he also didn’t place too much hope in the possibility.

Besides, for better or worse, he couldn’t dwell on this sudden burst of loneliness for too long. It was eclipsed by the fear that thrummed through his veins.

For a long minute, Peter considered turning around and heading back to the waiters’ station. He could tell whoever was there that he’d had a sudden bout of nausea and had to head home—but no, it wasn’t even noon yet. He would miss out on half a day’s worth of wages, and he wanted to get away from this planet as soon as humanly possible.

Instead, Peter gritted his teeth, allowed himself a moment to clench his fists, and put on a pleasant mask.

As the table ordered their drinks, there was a moment where the man from Brahma stared a little too intently at Peter. But maybe it just seemed that way to the paranoid part of him; after all, as a waiter, Peter was used to essentially being reduced to the background scenery. Why should this be any different?

Well. Besides the fact that there was _definitely_ an image of his face tucked away in a corner on page eight. It was small and blurry, thank god, but it was undeniable a picture of him in the reactor room, his face illuminated with red light.

Peter really hoped that this old man had poor vision.

Later, Peter would thank every god he knew that their meal went off without a hitch—to the extent of his knowledge, at least. While he dined, the Brahmese man gave no further indication that Peter’s face was somehow recognizable or familiar to him, but Peter’s heart threatened to beat out of his chest every time he approached the table.

As he watched them leave, at long last, Peter touched his hair absentmindedly and decided that he needed a change in look.

–•–

There was a waitress, a few years older than him, who worked many of the same shifts. Peter hadn’t held a conversation with her beyond the obligatory introduction that came from being a new person, but he admired her sense of style. Even though they all wore variations on the same uniform, her bright makeup and sharp eyeliner accentuated her eyes, and her piercings caught the light dazzlingly.

“Will you teach me how to do that?” Peter blurted.

It was around midnight. The restaurant would be closing soon—thankfully, theirs had one of the earlier closing times. The two of them were wiping down tables that had been recently vacated near the bar.

She frowned. “Will I teach you how to do _what_ , now?”

“Oh!” Peter said. “Uhh, I mean. Would you—would you teach me how to do makeup?”

She considered it for a long moment, scrutinizing his face. Evidently, she found something there that convinced her and she shrugged noncommittally. “I could try?” she offered. “I’m no expert or anything, though, so consider that your warning. Do you have your own makeup already?”

Peter shook his head, a little sheepish. It had been an impulsive question; he wasn’t exactly prepared for her to _agree_.

“All right, I guess you can borrow some of mine for now. Your complexion is lighter than mine, though, so if you want foundation and concealer, you’re going to have to go buy it yourself. Drugstore brands work fine.”

“‘For now’?” Peter asked. “As in, now now?”

“Well, I assumed as much,” she said. “My stuff is all back at my apartment, though, so—actually, you know what? I’ll just bring it in to work with me tomorrow. Your parents probably expect you home, don’t they.”

“No, they’ll be fine with it!” Peter said hurriedly, taking the risk of sounding over-eager. Who knew what his future would bring? Now that he had been granted this opportunity, he couldn’t let it be snatched away by something out of his control later.

“All right,” she said, but she was clearly pretty heavily doubting him. “Don’t you need to call your parents and tell them where you’re going, first?”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll do that,” Peter lied. He pulled out his comms—the kind where you could buy minutes by the month, which made it a disposable one for his purposes—and pretended to send a quick message. “Okay, there. It’s done.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Mmhm. I haven’t given you the address, yet.”

Oops.

“I—I just told them I was going over to my coworker’s?” he tried.

“Kid, you’re an awful liar.” Her voice was blunt, but her face visibly softened when she noticed that Peter was now avoiding eye contact. “Look, either get better at lying or get some self-preservation skills to know when you _shouldn’t_. You were typing absolute gibberish, so I really doubt that you sent that message.”

She could probably see the truth written plainly on his face. The thing was, Peter Nureyev was an _excellent_ liar—when he was prepared to lie. He could slip into roles and stay there, as long as he knew where the boundaries of the role were. In situations like this . . . well.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “It’s just—my parents. They wouldn’t care, even if they did know.”

This part wasn’t entirely truthful, either, but so what? Peter had never had “parents,” plural, and the closest person he had to one was dead. Mag wasn’t there anymore to raise an eyebrow at Peter’s questionable life decisions.

“Tell you what, I’ll bring my makeup tomorrow. Your shift starts at eight, too, right?”

Peter nodded.

“Cool. Meet me in the break room at seven-thirty, then.”

Even though it would cut down on his desperately needed hours of sleep, Peter’s heart felt like it would skip out of his chest with excitement when he left the restaurant that night.

–•–

Makeup was . . . strange.

Despite her claim to not be an expert, the girl most _definitely_ knew what she was doing. It wasn’t a matter of Peter thinking so just because he had so little experience, either. With an expert hand, she applied lipstick, eyeliner, eyeshadow, and mascara, talking through the process as she went. Peter watched in the mirror as his face was transformed and felt a strange, giddy delight. Makeup was amazing! It altered his face so delicately.

He didn’t think he would apply it all every day, and his usage would definitely depend on the persona he was inhabiting, but the eyeliner, the lip color . . . those, he thought held potential, purely on an aesthetic merit.

When she was done, Peter whirled himself away from the mirror. “I don’t even recognize myself. This is incredible!”

“. . . Yeah, sure,” the girl said, but she looked a little concerned by how pleased Peter looked. “You know, makeup looks cool and all—and, like, it helps you get tips and stuff—but you know it isn’t, like, _required_ , right?”

“Got it,” Peter said. He appreciated the girl’s words, he really did—he could see how makeup could be damaging to your self worth, especially if you felt like you needed it, and he could tell that she was merely trying to look out for him—but at the same time, this girl had just taught him an _invaluable_ skill, considering the kind of life he was living now.

She shrugged. “Just promise me that you’ll keep it in mind.”

“Thank you _so_ much,” Peter began before trailing off awkwardly. Suddenly, he realized that he didn’t even know the girl’s name. She wasn’t wearing her nametag yet for him to check, either. “Do you mind if I ask—I mean, sorry, I forgot—”

“Have you forgotten my name already?” she asked, but she seemed more amused than anything. “I’m Carla. Carla Álvarez. You’re Ellory, right?”

“Yeah,” Peter lied. “Yeah, I am.”

–•–

Peter should known that his newly-formed friendship wouldn’t last forever.

He would consider Carla one of his friends, but she had grown suspicious of him eventually—and not even because of his criminal background or his links to quote-unquote “terrorism” on a planet far, far away. No. She was suspicious of his _home_ _life_ , of all things.

Peter supposed, from an outsider’s perspective, his situation would seem strange. After all, summer was long over for most planets in the system. Most sixteen-year-olds would be in school; they wouldn’t be working as waiters in the middle of the day. Add that to his reluctance to talk about his home life—when pressed, he told Carla that his mother worked a minimum-wage job in the hospitality field and that they weren’t financially secure, and he flat-out refused to discuss the topic any further—and, okay, it made sense for her to be worried.

It was just very, _very_ inconvenient for him.

In the end, he wasn’t discovered by the police or the militia or even some secret governmental task force that took down interplanetary criminals. Instead, he was visited at work by two representatives from the Department of Children's Welfare, who were concerned about the terms of his employment—apparently, there were supposed to be labor laws regulating the rights of minors in the workforce, which, who knew?—and also his lack of school attendance.

Their concern over his case only grew as they discovered that there were no relatives of “Ellory Hart” on file with the planet’s register (nor on any of the hotel staff rolls), even though Peter had made sure that his file showed him as a resident of Mirari ever since birth.

Peter grew twitcher and twitcher as the social workers continued to ask him questions. He hadn’t exactly planned for a situation like this. Meanwhile, the interview itself turned into more of an interrogation (albeit, a gentle one) as Peter clammed up and refused to give cooperative answers.

When they tried to take a picture of him to reference it against a missing persons database, Peter decided that he’d had enough. He looked different now than he had nearly a year ago—was it really nearly a year ago?—and the makeup certainly helped, but he had no doubt that the representatives would use technology in the process of identifying him. Their algorithms would be able to analyze the unchangeable structures of his face, and if their search was able to connect to images outside of the system, they would find that the boy who claimed to be “Ellory Hart” was so much more than a mere missing person.

They had left the door unlocked as they interviewed him. An amateur mistake, really. But at the same time, their incompetence was reassuring—they obviously didn’t know who they were dealing with, or else they would’ve taken _many_ more precautions.

Peter was able to get to the nearest port and buy a ticket that would take him far away from Mirari. To tell the truth, Peter could’ve been on his merry way months and months ago, but, foolishly, he’d wanted to stay.

When Peter Nureyev left Mirari, it was because he had made a well-intentioned friend. Still, his heart ached with the same kind of betrayal that he’d felt when he was forced to leave Brahma, even though the conditions of this departure were way less traumatic than those of the last.

That was it. Peter Nureyev didn’t need others. He could become perfectly self-sufficient and then—

He didn’t know _what_ then, exactly. But he was certain that it had to be better than this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo! i just made a fandom twitter @[comeonbrain](https://mobile.twitter.com/comeonbrain), so feel free to check that out if twitter is one of the places you frequent!


	3. heartbreak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the second-to-last chapter! next sunday, there will be a double update of sorts because the final chapter and the epilogue will be posted together. thanks to all of you who have read this far!

Some days, Peter wondered what Mag would think of the adult he’d become.

For a while, Peter hopped between different planets, staying no longer than two months in any one place. Somewhere along the way, he reinstated some of his old, less-than-legal pastimes.

This, Peter didn’t think Mag would necessarily disapprove of. It was Mag, after all, who had taught him the basics of both morality and thievery as a child. Peter knew the difference between right and wrong, just as he knew that those seemingly objective words could be interpreted with far more fluidity than their definitions implied.

He wasn’t hurting anyone with what he was doing, at the very least. That was Peter's primary tenet, nowadays.

Pickpocketing quickly regained its spot as one of his favorites, especially on crowded planets where people thrummed together as one writhing mass on the streets. This was one such planet, although Peter had admittedly already forgotten its name—an occurrence that was becoming more frequent, as the planets began to blur together. That was no matter, though; Peter had deft hands and the wherewithal to blend into this busy five o’clock crowd, where a constant stream of workers exited their office buildings.

Now, Peter’s system was far from random. He had morals that informed his choice in targets. He never stole from those who looked like they would miss the money, and he never stole entire wallets either. It was so much easier to slip out a couple of ten or twenty-cred notes, rather than have the target realize their loss later, panic, and set everyone around them on guard. This way, the missing notes could be attributed to mere distraction—the “oh, I guess I wasn’t carrying as much money as I thought I was” mindset, etc.—because it was so much easier to believe than the alternative.

It was easy, relatively safe work, which made it all the more surprising when the script changed.

Peter was carefully sliding his hand out of someone else’s back pocket when, in a moment, the target turned around, grabbed Peter’s wrist, and squeezed with a grip that a python would be envious of.

Unceremoniously, Peter found himself dragged over to stand in front of a nearby shop window. His target—well, his _previous_ target, he supposed—did not press him against the wall. Instead, they angled their body towards him, in a move that made the two of them resemble a couple of friends who had stepped away from the stream of people to have a little chat.

“What do you think you’re doing?” they asked. By tone, their question was almost teasing, but that was negated by the fact that they weren’t smiling.

The target met his eyes. Peter resisted the urge to squirm, uncomfortable with the sudden amount of attention he was receiving. His distress only worsened when he realized that his former target had slipped his belongings out of his pockets at some point and they were now examining Peter’s false identification.

“Who are they, some kind of undercover cop?” Peter thought.

That was his first assumption, at least. But the more he thought about it, the less sense it made. If the person in front of him was with the law, they wouldn’t have been nearly as good at pickpocketing as they were. So instead he snuck little glances at the target—who he really needed a better nickname for—as they continued to scrutinize his belongings.

“You’re good at this,” they said, passing him back his identification card. It may have been his imagination, but Peter thought he sensed a bit of grudging admiration. “You have a good eye, but you missed a few minor details here and there.”

“Oh?” Peter responded. “Enlighten me. What tipped you off, then?”

They smirked. “Well, for a lot of it, I’d need a while to explain thoroughly. My short answer, though? The month is listed before the day on this planet.

Now, it couldn't be blamed on Peter’s imagination. They were most definitely looking him up and down. Their gaze was calculating, still, but it had lost its former chill.

This time, Peter forced himself to meet their eyes without flinching. Their appearance suggested that they were some young professional, shortly out of college and ready to start a career, but Peter’d had time to observe them, too, while they were still poring over his documents, and he had his doubts.

“They’re like me,” Peter thought faintly. His heart was pounding in his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was the residual fear of being caught or if it was just simple excitement. Peter cleared his throat. When had his mouth gotten so dry?

“Do you want to grab a coffee or something?” he asked.

They grinned. It was a crooked, mischievous thing. “Sure,” they said. “Is this your treat? Before you answer, I will remind you that you tried to steal my wallet . . .”

“That’s fine by me,” Peter said. “You’ll have to pick the place, though; I’m new in town.”

–•–

“So,” they said a few minutes later, grasping a beverage that contained enough sugar to demolish a pancreas. “What does a gentleman of upstanding moral character such as yourself doing in a place like this?”

Their name—or the name they gave Peter, at least—was Dara. Peter was perhaps a bit enamored.

“I just happened to find myself on the planet, that’s all,” Peter deflected. “You know how it goes, traveling for business.”

Dara raised their eyebrows but they didn’t call him out on his lie. Instead, they asked a question that took Peter by surprise. “Do you dance?”

“Sorry?”

“I asked if you danced. Given your earlier feat of what we’ll call agility, I was wondering. You seem like the kind of person who has potential.”

Peter looked around. The coffeeshop wasn’t exactly crowded this time of afternoon, but there were a few stray college students typing away at their laptops—or, more likely, scrolling through their feeds. He lowered his voice anyway. “Are we strictly talking about dancing here?”

“Well, I do really own a dance studio. The apartment above it, too.” They flashed him a look through their eyelashes, too quick for Peter to fully interpret. “But, yes, I could be speaking of a little more, potentially. It depends on whether or not you’re interested, of course.”

Peter’s mouth was dry—again. He took a sip of his own drink, noting absently that his hands were still shaking slightly. “Alright,” he said. “Count me in.”

–•–

They became partners—in crime, that was.

Did Peter want something more from their relationship, however loosely the term was used? Perhaps. But he had been living on his own for so long that he wasn’t sure if he was experiencing romantic feelings or merely a desire for deep, genuine human connection.

Besides, Dara was letting him stay at their apartment above the studio. Peter assisted with the classes, sometimes. He didn’t know enough about dance to be teaching it, but Dara was teaching him—in between giving him pointers on how to pickpocket, of course—and Peter was more than capable of acting as a receptionist. It was a nice arrangement. Peter wouldn’t want to jeopardize it.

All of which led the two of them to where they were—sitting on the couch after work, watching a low-budget horror movie. Dara was tired, more so than usual. They slumped against Peter’s side, nestled against his shoulder. Even without looking, Peter could tell that they weren’t paying much attention to what was happening on screen.

As a monster chased the protagonist through a dark alley, Dara shifted. Peter let his arm fall from where it was slung over their shoulder.

“Can I kiss you?” Dara asked.

Struck dumb, Peter just nodded and—

“Oh,” he thought. “Oh, oh, oh—”

This was what it was like to fall in love.

–•–

For a while, Peter rode the emotional high of being young and in a relationship (and of quite possibly being in love). He allowed himself to relax into his new life a little. Because that’s what it was, right? His new life?

He struck up conversations with the parents watching their children learn how to dance, and when he did, he introduced himself as _Beau, Dara’s partner._

He settled into domesticity and he found that it was comfortable.

There were bad days, too. Of course there were. Some days, Peter woke up, and it felt like someone had carved out a part of his chest, leaving him hollow and unable to think of anything but how miserable it was to exist.

Still, the good outweighed the bad.

Then, one day, Peter returned home from the grocery store to find a suitcase outside the door. His heart sank. Even without trying, he had the gut feeling that the door’s lock would be changed.

He climbed in through the window instead. Dara was in the living room, sitting on the couch with their head in their hands. They tensed when they heard his footsteps, but otherwise, they didn’t move.

“Beau,” they said. It sounded nothing like a greeting. “Or—I guess I should say Peter, huh?”

Ice flooded Peter’s veins. “I don’t go by that name anymore,” he said, but it rang hollow on his tongue.

Finally, Dara looked up at him. “You are Peter Nureyev, though, correct? The same Peter Nureyev who, just over ten years ago, threatened to bring a floating city down on an entire planet?”

“I—” Peter began, then stopped. Explaining his past was . . . difficult. Peter assumed so, at least; he had never really had the chance. “My name is Peter Nureyev, yes, but there’s so much that you don’t understand. I wasn’t—Brahma, New Kinshasa—they’re regimes, Dara, controlled by a—”

“When were you going to let me find out about this?” Dara interrupted. Peter could tell that they were putting on a front. They were trying to act strong and keep their composure, but there was an undeniable waver to their voice. “When were you going to tell me? _Were_ you going to tell me?”

“There’s so much that you don’t understand,” Peter repeated, quieter this time. He felt sort of—numb, almost. Why did he never learn from his mistakes? Hadn’t it been proven to him, over and over again, that giving someone his trust only ended in heartbreak?

“Yeah?” Dara said. “Yeah, well, maybe you’re right. Maybe I _don’t_ understand! I knew you had a past that you didn’t want to talk about, but I didn’t press you on it because I figured you would tell me eventually. I guess that makes me a fool, huh?”

”Please, Dara, let me explain,” Peter tried to say. “I should have told you about my past earlier, but I was scared and—“

“To find out that my boyfriend, my _partner_ , is wanted for terrorism and I’ve been letting this person stay with me for years without so much as a hint is disturbing. I’m scared of _you_ , whoever you are, and I would appreciate it if you got the hell out of my apartment.”

Peter could have explained himself. He could have done something, anything, and maybe Dara would have accepted his explanation.

The truth was, Peter still felt guilty about what he had done on New Kinshasa. There was no arguing that the higher-ups were subjugating an entire planet to an extremely advanced technological oppression—but then he’d just left. He fled the planet while the Guardian Angel System still terrorized the skies, and for all he knew, his actions were worth nothing and it still did.

So Peter left that planet, too. That planet, with a name that had never truly been unknown to him, with a name had never been forgotten, with name he had blocked out from his memory. Anything to stifle the twinge in his chest that memories of that time provoked.

Peter left that planet, and he tried not to feel like he had left part of himself behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a quick clarification: dara is definitely not a bad person! from the audience’s perspective, their argument with peter may seem like an overreaction, given what we know about brahma and the guardian angel system, but also consider what kind of information _they_ would’ve been exposed to and its biases. essentially, it’s meant to tie into how all news from brahma is pretty much propaganda, and how peter is still trying to run from his past.
> 
> next up: the juno steel chapter you’ve all been waiting for ;-)


	4. same new, same old

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eventually, Peter crawled out of the pit of depression he had landed in. It took time. It took effort. It took years.
> 
> It also took him to Mars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what’s up!!! this is a surprise update! there’ll be a _very_ brief epilogue posted in a few hours (and by “very brief,” i mean less than 100 words), but other than that, this is the final chapter!

Eventually, Peter crawled out of the pit of depression he had landed in. It took time. It took effort. It took years.

It also took him to Mars.

As the years passed, Peter had become less and less particular about the kinds of jobs he was willing to accept. Still, this one weighed harder on his conscious than most, even as it piqued his curiosity.

He had been hired by a woman who went by the name Miasma. He halfway hoped that it was an alias. The implication that her parents had looked at her and said, “Ah, yes, let’s name our child after a highly unpleasant vapor and/or atmosphere” was pretty horrifying—almost enough to excuse her weird obsession with ancient Martian artefacts.

For better or worse, Peter had never met her in-person. Instead, he was hired after proving his competency. He was told to steal half of a lady’s private collection, and he ended up swindling the whole thing away while she watched.

Now, it would take him to the office of a private investigator named Juno Steel. He would pose as an agent sent by Dark Matters to investigate the Mask of Grimpoteuthis—not exactly the best cover story, but plausible enough, given that the Mask was all over the news and the stations hadn’t even picked up on the homicide, yet.

He expected it to be easy. Really, he had just managed to rob a woman’s entire private collection; in comparison, a single mask was a piece of cake, supposed “powers” notwithstanding.

–•–

He bypassed the secretary easily enough—he was aware that he had a pretty face, and he used it to his advantage. The secretary even giggled as she let him through the detective's door.

The detective was trying to climb out his office window. Nureyev himself was no stranger to climbing out of windows, but usually in his line of work, the windows weren’t his own. The sight was ridiculous, really, so much so that it threatened to make him break character—but no, this alias was suave, if a little naïve. So he countered it with a little bit of ridiculousness himself.

“Detective,” he said. “Are you trying to crawl out that window?”

The detective didn’t turn to face him, but he did lower his head in an acknowledgment of being caught. “I’d say I was succeeding,” he replied.

Peter smiled. It was always good to meet someone who was willing to play along and strike up a casual banter. Well, not necessarily always good, but it would make his job more entertaining, at the very least.

“Well, I heard they do things differently on Mars, but I must admit this is a surprise.” Nureyev laughed, closing the door behind him as he did so. Then, he laid on the charm. “You’ll have to show me your customs, Detective. Is there room in that window for two?”

The detective turned around. Finally—it would have been awkward for Nureyev to linger in the doorway for much longer, especially because the other person in the room was halfway out of a window. Nureyev could tell that the detective was looking him up and down. Cataloguing him, maybe.

That was fine by Nureyev—he was fairly certain that the detective wouldn’t see through him. Still, this detective was . . . interesting.

Hmm.

–•–

Perhaps he had underestimated the detective, Nureyev reflected.

His alias wasn’t the best—he was aware that he didn’t fit the typical profile of a Dark Matters agent, even with a spotless record, which was surely a red flag—and he knew that he had made a mistake in letting the detective rummage around in his pockets as well. Juno Steel was obviously more perceptive than he let on.

Very well. Nureyev had made a mistake—it wasn’t the end of the world. But, if he allowed himself to be honest about his own desires, he found that he wanted to see this detective again, and not just because he was a good kisser.

And that—that desire to see Juno Steel again, despite his true profession being revealed—was perhaps the most dangerous part of it all.

All of this to say, Peter knew that it was an incredibly dumb idea to leave a note—especially one that was signed with his real name. Maybe it would act as a safeguard, though, to keep him from coming back to Mars. What were the chances that the detective wouldn’t look him up and discover that Peter Nureyev was wanted half the galaxy over, for crimes ranging from petty theft to domestic terrorism?

Still, he was running out of time. Juno had called the police already and Peter knew that they were closing in rapidly.

Behind his back, he crinkled the note slightly in his hand. Not enough to wrinkle it, but enough to reassure himself that it was still there.

As he did so, he came to a decision. He would leave the note there, tucked in between the cushion. He would leave the ball in the detective’s court, this time, and see where the chips happened to fall.

He would leave it up to Juno Steel if they saw each other again.

–•–

They did.

They robbed a supposedly impenetrable train. They were captured and tortured and kept in the same cell, hundreds of feet below the surface of Mars.

They fought as a team against the delusional, genocidal Martian who had trapped them there, and beyond all odds, the both of them survived.

They returned to the surface, and then, to a cheap hotel room in Hyperion City.

Peter, tired, confessed his burgeoning love for Juno. Perhaps, he would reflect later, that did make him a fool.

–•–

When he woke, the bed beside him was empty. Expectations low, he searched for any residual warmth in the abandoned spot beside him, but he found none. He tried not to feel too surprised. 

“This is what you deserve,” the low part of his brain told him. Juno had finally discovered that the man he knew as Peter Nureyev was a mere fragment of a person, wrapped in hundreds of aliases, used and then discarded.

Nureyev didn’t know if he wanted to be a person anymore. Maybe—maybe this was the end of Peter Nureyev, delivered some twenty years too late.

As if on auto-pilot, Nureyev swung his legs over the side of the bed and began to get dressed. His fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. He looked at himself in the mirror and sighed at what he found.

What would come next? Where would he go, now that he was no longer planning for two?

He didn’t know. But he would keep an eye out for Juno, anyway, despite his brain’s insistence that obviously, he’d been left in the middle of the night so that Juno would never have to see him again. He would keep an eye out for Hyperion City, despite the knowledge that it would probably only get him hurt further.

Maybe the charade of being a person would have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, i’m on tumblr @uno-steel, but i’ve also created a sideblog called @tpp-fic-recs! as the title implies, it’s a place to share fic recs for the penumbra podcast, so feel free to share your fic recommendations with me on there!


	5. epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: embedding the fan art was the most difficult part of uploading this chapter! if, for whatever reason, it doesn’t load properly for you, you can also check out elliot’s amazing art on tumblr or on twitter.

Months and months later, his comms rang. It was no burner comm—to be honest, Nureyev had almost forgotten that it was still in his possession, with as long it had been since he’d received a call. It was stowed deep within an inside pocket of his coat and capable of connecting from anywhere in the galaxy to the Outer Rim. A marvelous feat of engineering, really.

He accepted the call. “Hello, Buddy,” he said—for she was the only person in the galaxy who knew about this connection. “It’s been a while.”

_fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today marks the first time i’ve ever completed a multi-chapter fic, so that’s really exciting for me! comments are super, _super_ appreciated. :D
> 
> i was definitely a little mean to everyone’s favorite crime boy in this one, but if you’re now in the mood for something fluffier, let me promo my other penumbra fic, [as long as you love me so](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16825174), where peter and juno get stuck in a snowstorm while they’re on a case! there’s also slow dancing, if that influences your decision any. it’s not QUITE a hallmark movie, but it’s pretty close ;-D

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr @[nonbinaryarum](https://nonbinaryarum.tumblr.com) and @[keplerlesbian](https://keplerlesbian.tumblr.com)!


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